Date: Mon, 15 Aug 2016 21:10:35 -0400
From: Joe Justice <lexdude34@gmail.com>
Subject: Hi Chaste Servant Chapter 2

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sex between adult men, with all characters well above 18 years of age. If
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His Chaste Servant Chapter 2

	Abstention from orgasm was harder than I expected. By habit, almost
every night during the last few years, I'd trolled for hook-ups on the
apps or checked out porn, and ritually jerked off before I went to bed.
Cock-on-the-brain was my "normal." Make that "big cock on the brain," for
the record. Max's new direction threw a wrench into all that. That first
night, Tuesday, I had some trouble falling asleep and overslept my alarm
Wednesday morning, barely getting to work on time. I was off my game, so
much as `game' could apply to a legal secretary. All morning, I thought
about heading up to 53rd Street at lunch, to a bookstore where I could
usually suck off several men and get back to my desk within an hour.
	"Danny, it's only one day, and I'm a mess. Not even one day. What's
wrong with me?"
	"Calm down, sweetie. You can do this. Mister Man is only asking you
to hold on until Friday. Sixty hours, babe."
	"I can't concentrate. I forgot to take a message this morning, and
my boss was pretty upset."
	"The hothead? Did he yell?"
	"Yeah, him. No, he didn't blow up, but he's giving me that look. HR
wants to see me tomorrow."
	"Seriously? That's a bit much, for a missed message. "
	"Yeah, well, I'll ask him to call you first before he reams me out.
`Boss, would you talk to my friend Danny before you fire me?' Right!"
"Right. I'll be like, `Mr. T...I can call you `Mister T'...Jimmy's in love,
and he hasn't come in 12 whole hours. Twelve!"
"Funny. Gotta go. I'll call you later."
	"Breathe, babe. Love you."

	With a few extra cups of coffee in me, I managed to find my
equilibrium. No further fuck-ups with my boss Carey Tomlinson or anyone
else that morning. At 12:30 exactly, I bolted for the bookstore, and
managed to swallow loads from three men. I had to force myself to keep
from kneading my crotch as I licked, slurped, throated and worshipped –
all while keeping my office clothes spotless. Today's favorite, an older
Con Ed worker with a fat tool and a stupendous load, told me, "That was
great head, faggot." Nice to hear, but all the cum didn't take the edge
off, the way it usually did.

	I went back to the bookstore after work, sucked down three more
loads, and went to the Candle Bar for a couple of drinks to calm my
nerves. Johnny, my regular bartender, told me I looked a little ragged,
and comped me a shot of bourbon. Somehow, I got to sleep that night.

	Thursday, I was 10 minutes late for work. By 11 am, I'd misplaced a
file for one of Tomlinson's cases. He called me into his office.
Tomlinson, with the famously aggressive temperament, was one of our firm's
star litigators. He was married, three kids, a total pussyhound by
reputation. Oh, and obviously hung, like Jon Hamm hung, even in his
expensive suits. He played lacrosse at Hopkins, and had that privileged
lacrosse arrogance and strut. Every time an attractive female walked by,
he gave them a not-so-subtle visual undressing. Office scut said he was
banging the firm's event planner, hardly a surprise for a walking
impregnation machine.

	Tomlinson was the firm's top biller, so he was politically
untouchable. And if he happened to also be a sexual carnivore, well then,
the firm would work around it somehow; at least that was accepted gospel
among the assistants and paralegals. That's why I was here. After
Tomlinson's last sexual harassment settlement, the firm now assigned him
clearly gay males like me as assistants. At 3 o'clock, Tomlinson called me
into his office.

	"Close the door." Uh oh. "Sit."
	He moved to the front of his desk, and propped himself against it,
his crotch at eye level about three feet in front of me. I could see the
penis line of his soft cock pressed out against his expensive navy slacks.
My boss knew exactly how to work his assets.
	"Eyes up here," he said with a tight, knowing smirk. Damn! I didn't
think I was checking him out, this time. At least not obviously. "We need
to talk." Beat. "What's going on?" Beat. "Do we have a problem?" Beat.
"Boyfriend trouble?," he asked, with a touch of sarcasm.
	"I don't know."
	"Speak up. I can't hear you." He was in dead-serious litigator,
using his throw-your-opponent-off-his-game mode. He brushed the back of
one hand over his basket. I involuntarily stared. "Ahum, eyes up here,
please," he repeated, again with the smirk, and the slightest of eye
rolls. "Lemme tell you what I think. I see my assistant, who's paid a lot
of money to support my practice, starting to slip up around the edges. Am
I wrong? You got a pile of my case folders on your desk, unfiled. You're
screwing up messages. You were late today."
	"I think that was the first one..."
	"One screw-up is one too many, Jimmy." At the office, my name was
`James,' but from the get-go, Tomlinson insisted on the diminutive
`Jimmy.' It'd be futile to even try to correct him. Now he sat himself
back, his ass resting on his desk, his big lacrosse legs spread wide, his
basket mounded up between them. "Let's review, okay? This firm counts on
me to bring in a lot of money every year. To do that I bring in clients
and win cases. To do those things the firm pays an assistant – that would
be you, at least at the moment – to cover the details. All so I can make
the money to do things like pay your salary. So far we're clear?" He
hadn't raised his voice, but he was agitated, and I felt like I was in a
cage with a wild animal, who could spring any second. A bit like Max,
actually.

	I nodded yes, the image of Max pile-driving my face floating across
my mind. Tomlinson had interlaced his fingers on top of his head, opening
up his arms. He had a wide back!
	"You know my reputation as a boss?"
	I nodded yes. I was Tomlinson's fourth assistant in two years, the
third since the `males only' policy went into place. The firm had gone
back and forth on his demand for two assistants, but convinced him I could
handle the job solo.
	"People say I chew up assistants. I don't see it that way. I just
ask my assistants them to do their jobs, like I do my job. And if they
don't, I let them know right away, so things don't go off the tracks. If
that's called chewing them up, well, too bad. So far, you've done your
job. This week, I don't know what's happening with you, but fix it. Right
now. I'll tell HR we had this meeting. You don't have to meet with them.
We're done. Book me a one o'clock lunch at 11 Madison tomorrow. Table for
four. Put it on my calendar. And call my wife's office and let her know we
need to push back dinner tonight to 7:30. You can leave the door open."
And he stood up, and walked around to his seat. I'd just escaped a
mauling!

	The sheer adrenaline terror of the talk kept me focused until I left
work. Went to the bookstore after work, found a hunky guy my age with an
uncut dick and big nuts, sucked him off, went to the Candle again, where
Johnny said he thought I needed a vacation. God, I was so horned up! When
I got back to my apartment, got into bed and worked my hole with one of my
bigger toys for a while, imagining Max and –okay, I admit it, Tomlinson –
tag teaming my ass and egging each other on. Somehow I managed to stop
before I spurted. I took a sleeping pill and eventually fell asleep.

	I got to work just on time Friday, but Tomlinson was in court all
day for voir dire on one of his cases, so he didn't have to see me looking
out-of-it again. He called in and barked some instructions. New
arrangements for his ski trip in two weeks, and how he wanted me to
expense the bills. Change the restaurant for his dinner with Perelman two
weeks from now. Moving his 7am Monday raquetball reservation at the Yale
Club up to 6:30. Having his driver pick him up at a client's office
instead of here for his charity event Monday night. Which files I should
have on his desk when he came in over the weekend, and which ones sent to
his home. Phew! I had lunch at my desk, and left exactly at five, excited
that I'd see Max in just five hours. Relief, soon!

	I went straight home, walked to my bed and fell right into a deep
sleep. When I woke up, it was 9:15! I had 45 minutes to shower, shave,
douche and get to Max's. Fuck!

	When Max opened the door, he barely made eye contact. "You're late.
Go the bedroom and strip."
	"I'm sorr..."
	"Save it."

	Max was wearing tight jeans and a t-shirt. As I stood there in my
jock near his bed, he calmly went to a closet and grabbed some things,
then put them on his big armchair in the corner. It looked like a ball-
gag, a belt and a big leather paddle! The abstinence already had me on
edge, and now this! He went to the chair, lifted the gear and sat down,
holding both belt and paddle in one hand. "So, do you keep men waiting all
the time?" Max's tone was even and emotionless.
       "Nuh, I...," I stammered. The caged-beast encounter in Tomlinson'
office flashed by.
       "Don't talk. In my experience, faggots learn in one of two ways.
Rewards is one way, punishment is other. That's all a fag brain can
handle. So we're going to have a lesson. You are a faggot, right?" I
flushed and slowly nodded. "And I a man, correct?" I nodded again, my dick
starting to swell. "So you can either leave now or we can have a faggot
teaching moment. If you want that, get over here and lay over my knees." I
did not hesitate but a couple of second, then arranged myself over his
jean-clad legs. I was trembling a bit. "Do not make a single sound,
understand?" I nodded.

       Thwack! Max walloped my right asscheek hard! I mean hard! It stung
to the point of tears! Thwack! Then my left cheek. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
This was a full-force spanking, every three seconds or so for what seemed
like a couple of minutes. I started a bit after each hit, and was
groaning. My ass was on fire.
       "Shut up! I told you to keep quiet, faggot." I heard some jostling,
and then the crack of what must have been the paddle. I yelped. Max paused
long enough to work the ball gag into my mouth and fasten it around my
head. And then the paddling resumed. I couldn't help it, and was yelling
with each hit, into the gag. Max was very strong, and used one arm to hold
me in place while he swung away with the other. I thought I'd pass out
from the pain, and then I broke into uncontrollable crying as he kept
going, sobbing like a baby. My brain was blank. Now the slaps slowed down,
and eventually stopped. I kept crying for about a minute more. God, I'd
embarrassed myself.
       "So the lesson here is that you don't keep me waiting. You want to
keep your faggot friends waiting, that's your business. But you don't keep
any man waiting, ever. Do? You? Understand?" I nodded, sniffling, snot
still dripping from my nostrils. "Now, stand up."

       I was shaky getting up, but Max had my arm gripped in one hand and
kept me upright. "Stay there." He walked to the closet and came back with
some kind of hood. "I don't want to see your faggot tears." He removed the
ball gag, and pulled a black neoprene hood over my head, with the eyes
covered and an opening for the nose and mouth. I was in darkness.

       And so we started. Max roughly pulled me towards the bed and pushed
me onto it. "All fours, face down." I heard him unzip and strip, heard
drawers opening, felt something cool on my hole, then a finger push in all
the way, then out. I felt Max's cock line up against my hole, and then a
forceful entry. He pushed in to the balls with one stroke. I yelled.
       "We can always put the gag back in," he warned, as he pulled my arms
back behind me like reins and rabbit-fucked me brutally, then moved me
into a bunch of positions to get even deeper penetration. "Open your cunt!
How the fuck you think I'm gonna get my arm in there, if you don't let me
in!"

       I was in subspace overload: The abstinence, the spanking, the hood,
the fucking. And from nowhere, an intense orgasm rolled up and out of me.
"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh my God! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!" I thought the top of my head
would explode, as I saw only white light.
       "Niiice, bitch. No hands. See, that's what happens when you keep
your hands off your junk. Two fag lessons in one night, eh?" Max slowed
his fucking to a steady pace, but never stopped. I was groaning with
pleasure, and started to wilt with exhaustion. He pulled out and flipped
me onto my back, arranged my head over the edge of the bed, stood up, and
buried his cock all the way down my throat, holding it there until I
choked. "You think we're stopping. No way, cunt." And then he deep dicked
my mouth for what seemed like 15 minutes, sometimes slapping me to keep me
focused after my orgasm. I kept wondering what my boss's cock would feel
like, in this position. Now Max's huge balls were slowly pulling up tight
with an impeding orgasm. Max's cock swelled as he blew his load right into
my gullet, both hands gripping my head like it was a fleshlight. His load
had to be even more than the Con Ed guy fed me.

       Max was true to form. He pulled me up to my feet with a strong
armgrip, led me to what I guess what the armchair, and pushed me down to
my knees. I heard him sit and felt his hairy legs extend on either side of
me. A big hand gripped the back of my neck and pulled me into his saliva-
covered crotch. "Get me hard again."

       Max had never kicked back and let me just worship his cock, so this
was a first. The hood and the pitch darkness made my attentions all the
hotter, for him and for me. So this was my Helen Keller map: Every vein of
Max's cock, every contour of his bull balls, every particularly sensitive
spot explored and memorized for future use. He let me bring him to another
shattering explosion, holding just his cockhead at the entrance to my open
mouth so I'd feel and taste his sperm. I heard him breathing heavily once
he let my head go.
	"Get up!" Max pulled me up by both armpits until I was standing. And
then he unbuckled the hood and took it off. "Don't move." I heard Max walk
across the bedroom, open and shut a closet door, and then saw a big butt
plug in front of my face. "Get it wet," he ordered as he pushed it into my
mouth. And then holding me by the arm hard, Max brought the plug to my
hole and pushed it in. My hole had tightened up, and I yelled. "Shut up
and take it. I don't want your cunt dripping all over my carpet." He sat
down in his armchair, legs sprawled open. "I want you to go into the
living room. When you leave the hallway and come into the living room,
you'll see a bar to your left. You'll see some single-malt scotches. Open
the Laphroaig 30 year, and pour me two fingers full in one of the tumblers
next to the bottles. No ice. Bring it to me."

	The bar part was clear, and I found the Laphroaig — he did say "30-
year," right? – and what looked like scotch glasses. I brought Max his
drink. He held up the glass, inspecting it, then set it down on the small
table next to his chair. Very calmly, he said, "Kneel down." He leaned
forward and hooked his left hand around my head, pulling himself close to
my right ear. He had my head crooked firmly in his arm; I could smell the
musk of his pits. For a few moments, he just breathed in and out near my
ear, letting the tension build. "Are you always so willful? Don't talk. I
said I said `two fingers full.' And I showed you the fingers. Not your
little faggot fingers. My fingers. Now do it again." He never raised his
voice above a husky whisper.

       I went to do it again. I sure wish I had more lube, cause the plug
was chafing my hole. I brought the second glass. He set it aside again.
"You're not too bright, are you?" I blushed with shame and some anger, and
looked down. "Look up. Two fingers. Do it again. We can stay here all
night, if we have to."

       We went through it again, when I started crying in frustration as he
rejected my third attempt, and yet again, when he finally accepted the
glass on my fourth attempt and took his first sip. He set it down next to
the others. It looked just a little different than the others. "Now this
is two fingers full. You see the difference?" I nodded, humiliated. "That
only took four tries. When a man tells you to make him a drink, and tells
you how to do it, listen. You could be a good faggot, if you applied
yourself." I nodded, beet red, humiliated, a little sniffly. "So that's
lesson number three tonight. Now sit on the floor." I did, and watched Max
sip his scotch and close his eyes in reverie. I let mine close too,
exhausted. He startled me with a sharp question. "When's the last time you
had a cock in your mouth, before tonight?"
       "Uhh...I think it was..."
       "Don't even think about lying to me, or I'll tan your ass so hard
you'll see stars."
       "It was...uh, yesterday, after work."
       "Tell me about it. Every detail." I did.
       "How many cocks you suck off every week, on average?"
       "Maybe eight to 10, I think."
       "How many since I saw you last week?
       "Eight."
       "You swallow their loads?" I nodded. "So you're one of those
cumwhores?"
       "I guess...so."
       "How old were you when you sucked your first cock?" So, now it was
gonna be death-by-machine-gun questions.
       "I was in the sixth grade, so...eleven."
       "Tell me about it. Every detail." I told him all about my older
cousin Al, the first time in the tent, and then all the times that summer.
       "Did you swallow?" (Al made me, so yes.) You liked it right away?" I
nodded yes.
       "When did you get fucked the first time?"
       "Same summer, with Al."
       "You like that, too?
       "Well, it hurt at first...but it made Al happy, and he pressured me
all the time, so I kinda did it for him." That reminded me to keep that
fat plug from slipping out of my hole.
       "So you've always liked to please?" A `yes' nod. And then, Max went
on and on for what seemed like an hour, using his best cross-examination
style to expose every single aspect of my sexual history, current turn-ons
and still-unfilled desires. It was exposure-a-thousand-cuts. Just a
sampling: "Ever been with a woman?" "How come your nips are so small?"
"Why no tattoos?" "No piercings?" "Ever had a master?" "You ashamed of
your small dick?"

       The whole time, he sipped his scotch and pulled on his semi-hard
cock, the cock I wished I were nursing on silently. All these questions,
and I still didn't even know Max's last name. It seemed we might be
winding up, but then, "You ever get fisted?" Now I was surprised. Max had
mentioned wanting to get his arm inside me. Not just his hand, his arm!
       "Not yet. I've tried, and one guy almost got his hand in, but it
just wouldn't fit." He mused quietly on that one, just sipping the scotch
and pulling on his cock.
       "I should fuck you again, but I gotta raquetball match first thing
in the morning." What was it with these Alpha males and raquetball? "Ok,
time to go." And Max got up, and walked to his bathroom. What a beautiful
ass he had! "Let yourself out, and I'll call you. I want you to starting
wearing that plug all the time, starting now, unless you have to shit. And
don't touch yourself, understand? That's a dealbreaker." I nodded.

       "Could it actually get any more intense than tonight?," is what I
thought as I wobbled home. No Eagle, no Candle, just a to-my-limits
buttplug up my ass, a raging hard-on, and a spinning head. I took a
sleeping pill and went to sleep.

At 8am, the phone rang. I would've let it ring, but it said "RESTRICTED,"
which might mean Max. "Hello?"
	"I just finished my game. Get up. I want you on your feet. You up?
You listening?"
	"Uh huh," I answered, groggily. My hole hurt.
	"Get a pen. I have some instructions. Hurry up." It took me about 10
seconds to wade through the dirty clothes on my bedroom floor, and dig
through the assorted crap on my desk. "Okay, today at noon, I want you to
go to a store on Christopher. New York Leatherman. You know it?" ("Uh
huh.") "Go downstairs and ask for Jake. Tell him I sent you. He's gonna
give you a haircut, and then sent you upstairs to see Christof. Christof
will outfit you with some gear. Everything's paid for."
	"What sort of gear?"
	"I ask the questions, remember? If I wanted you to know, I'd tell
you, wouldn't I? Whatever it is, I think you want to see me again, so
you're gonna just do it. Today. And treat Jake and Christof the way you'd
treat me. I'll have them send me some pix when they're done. Don't be
late. And keep the plug in." Click.

       I arrived at 11:55. And when the store opened, I asked for Jake. The
butch number who opened the shop smiled broadly. "Oh, you're the
one...Jake's setting up downstairs." Was everybody here in on the joke,
except me? Down the circular stairway, Jake was indeed setting up, in
jeans and just a harness top, his head shaved, his keys dangling left. He
handed me a basket.
       "Your master wants you naked for this, except for the plug and
jock." ("My master?!") I closed my eyes a took a deep breath for a moment,
to absorb all this. I took off my clothes, as Jake eyed me impatiently
with arms crossed, his tatted biceps bulging. He came up close, and leaned
into my face like he was going to kiss me, but then reached behind me,
between my cheeks and pulled on the plug a bit. I jumped. "Just checking
that this is in," he said with a leer, right into my face. "You know,
orders. Sit on the stool."

       And so Jake proceeded to give me an almost-skin buzz-cut, kneading
his basket into my back and sides at every opportunity, using fistfuls of
hair to roughly yank my head into position for his clippers. In a few
minutes, I could see what looked like all my hair on the floor. What would
they say at the office? What would Danny and Pete and the rest of the gang
say? I rubbed my scalp. Okay, there was at least a little hair left.
       "Look into the camera." I must've had a deer-in-headlights
expression as he took the pix. "I think your man is going to be real
happy, or happy enough. I'd have you thank me with a blowjob, but your guy
said hands off the merchandise. And he's payin'. Now, get your butt
upstairs. Christof is waiting. You don't need your clothes for him. I'll
bring `em up."

I walked through the clusters of regulars and tourists on the main sales
floor to the man standing in jeans and leather chaps at the back. Christof
was short but stacked, with a shaved head, a leather armband on his left
bicep, keys also dangling left, with a red hanky out the back left pocket.
       "I'm Christof. Good cut. Follow me." I did, into what seemed to be
the store's workshop, with a bunch of stations to make what looked like
customized gear. "You know what we're doing, right?"
       "Not at all..."
       "Your dom wants you in a chastity cage. So I'm gonna measure you,
and then pick one out and lock you in. He'll get the key." An extended
PTSD blank-mind moment passed.
       "Measure, I..."
       "Yeah, we want it tight, one so you can't slip out, and two, `cause
it helps shrink your junk over time."
       "Shrink? Over time?," I managed to stammer, undoubtedly wide-eyed.
       "Yeah, shrink. You don't need that stuff," he said casually, nodding
to my jock-clad package. "Take off the jock."

       I rolled it down, fully exposed as several employees stopped what
they were doing to observe.
	"Wow! Now that is small!" he whooped, as I moved to cover myself.
"Hey, don't do that," he said, serious again, nodding to my hand over my
crotch. "Guys, check this out!" And three of Christof's colleagues
gathered around me to smirk and exchange looks with each other. "You did
go through puberty, right?," Christof mock-asked, as the others laughed
and went back to work. "Keep your hands at your side, and stay still."

       Christof brought over some kind of special calipers and a box of
different chastity cages. I wasn't sure I could do this. Only Max's order
to treat Christof with respect kept me from bolting.

       "You know, I do a lot of these jobs," said Christof, talking as he
worked. "I've had a lot of experience with boys, or subs, or fags or
whatever you want to call `em. I can tell a fag within a couple of seconds
," he went on, using the time to lay out his very own Unified Theory of
Faggots. "Almost all fags have a few things in common. One, they grew up
in military or religious homes. Lots of discipline. Two, their experience
with women is either zero or one horror story after another. Lots of
rejection from females. Three, they have small penises. Yeah, you think
I'm kidding about that, but I'm not. It's like nature is telling them,
`Hey, you're not really a man, so don't worry about it. I'm just gonna
remind you every day by giving you a small dick. Sometimes you do get a
fag with an average or even a big dick, but they're the exception.'

       Within 30 minutes, Christof had secured my cock in a tight CB-6000
device, with a small padlock. "Now this is gonna feel like we're cutting
off circulation down there. We're not, but we are constricting it, `cause
we want the shrinkage, like I said. I'm gonna give you some cream to rub
near the edges. It'll take a week or so to get used to it, and sleeping
may be hard the first couple of nights. Like I said, your man's gonna get
the key. Any questions?" I was too in shock to answer. "Now, let's get
some pix. I'll call Jake to get your clothes up here. You can wait in the
store `til then. Really, you should be giving me a blowjob to thank me,
but I'll take a raincheck." What was it with the blowjobs-for-tips here?

       After a half-dozen phone pictures, interrupted by squeezes on his
package, Christof ushered me into the store, where I stood awkwardly as
customers checked me out while looking for chaps and boots and
handkerchiefs. When the clothes came, I quickly dressed and staggered out
onto Christopher Street, my mind a blank. The phone rang. It was Max.
       "I saw the pix. Jake and Christof tell me you did good. Let's plan
on you coming over tomorrow night, 9 o'clock. Wear the plug. And the
jock." Click.

       I watched TV most of Saturday before calling Danny at dinnertime. I
laid it all out.
       "And you can't get at it? Even to clean it? I wanna see it. Send me
a picture." I did, the cage and the haircut. "Well, they can't fire you
for a haircut. It's kinda hot, actually."
       "My boss is out on Monday, thank god. By the time he gets back and
makes one of his remarks, I'll already have heard everyone's opinion."
       "Wow, I've never seen you fall like this. Mister Man really got
inside your head."
       "...and my throat, and my hole..."
       "Don't go there. Are you going out tonight? I'm meeting Pete and
Julio at Gymbar, around nine."
       "I dunno. I can't decide. I can't think straight. You know, I'm
still getting used to wearing a plug and a cage. Sometimes, I wish I
weren't such a pushover for a hung top."
       "But you are, Blanche, but you are." We both chuckled. "You opened
yourself for that one."
       "I'm gonna run. Love you."
       "Love you too."

       I slept in real late Sunday, wandered around my apartment aimlessly,
with my 9pm date ticking dimly in my head. At 7, I started my prep, taking
out the plug to douche and then putting it back in with extra lube.

       At 8:57, I knocked on Max's door. He opened it and nodded his head
approvingly. "Nice cut." When I was inside, he closed the door, and said,
"Drop your clothes right here." I did. Max reached into my jock to pull it
down below the new cage, thumbing all over the device, tugging to see it
was securely on. "Good! You did good." He walked towards a big couch and
sat down on it, which is when I saw the big black dildo on the marble
coffee table. "Come `ere." As I got to him, he patted his lap, and said,
"Straddle me, facing me."

       This was new. Max pulled me into him almost like a hug, then reached
his hands under both cheeks, squeezing and lifting. I felt him also check
the plug. "I knew you could do it." This was the most intimate moment we'd
yet had, his hands on my body, direct eye contact, with a smile. He pulled
me in for a sloppy kiss. "I told you. I believe in rewards. Go get me a
drink. Laphroaig, 30 year, two fingers, no ice."

       On my way back to Max, perfectly measured drink in hand, I noticed
that dildo had a jar of lube beside it, and a bottle of poppers. I handed
him his drink.

       "I want you to sit on that for me." Okay, mystery solved. "It's only
8 inches around, and 10 from tip to balls. You told me you've taken ten
before. The coffee table can hold your weight. So I want you to stand on
the table, facing the bar, and squat onto that dick. You can take your
time. I want to watch every single inch go up inside you. Yes, you can
take the plug out." Max sat back, peeled his sweats down, reached forward
to take a scoop of lube and put it on his rock-hard cock, then leaned
back, drink in one hand, greasy cock in the other. So I was the
entertainment.

       I got on the coffee table (yeah, it was real solid, no wobble)
carefully removed the plug, then squatted to lube up the dildo and my
hole. And then I did a deep knee bend until the fat head of the toy
touched my hole. Oh, boy! This was not gonna be easy. Snorting a huge hit
of poppers, I pushed down. Even after a few days of plugged ass, my hole
resisted. So I had to ride up and down until, after a few minutes, the
head popped in.
       "Fuck, yeah. That is hot! Keep going."

	It took repeated hits of poppers and almost 20 minutes for me to
take it all. My god I was full!
	"Now, all the way up and all the way down."

       I complied. After five minutes, I heard Max stand up behind me. "Now
come off it and turn around. Come off the table and stand facing me."
Max's cock was as hard as I'd ever seen it, the head an angry red, the
veins popping. He reached behind me and positioned the dildo near the edge
of the coffee table closest to him. "Okay, now sit on it."

       Impaled on ten inches of dildo, my face was exactly level with his
crotch. Max took my head in both hands and pushed it onto his cock, all
the way to the root. "Fuck yes. Take it from both ends." It was too much,
and I erupted with what felt like an orgasm, groaning around eight-plus
inches of thick Maxmeat. After riding my face while I rode the dildo, Max
blew his load down my throat with a loud "Arrrarrgh. Fuck yes! Swallow it
bitch! Don't you fuckin try to get off my dick! Ahh fuck!" And then he
collapsed back onto the couch.

       I let myself up off the toy, clenched my hole to check if it would
still close (it did) and instinctively knelt between Max's legs on the
carpet. Wow! That had to be one of the most intense orgasms of my life,
even with no erection. It felt like it started in my hole and worked its
way outward. I was blissed out. Without thinking much, I leaned forward
and took Max's spent cock in my mouth, very softly suckling on the still-
fat shaft and head. This was worship. This was gratitude. Time stopped.

	"That's it," Max suddenly announced. "I gotta get up super early
tomorrow. Racquetball. If you wanna go wash up in the bathroom, you know
where it is. You did good." This was a night of firsts. A kiss.
Compliments. Bathroom privileges. Bringing my plug with me, I took a
shower. Yes, his bathroom really was almost as big as my living room. I
put the plug back in and came out to get into my clothes.

	Max was in an unusually relaxed mood when I came out. I got dressed
and was ready to go, standing near the door. "I'll want to see you this
week. So I'll call." He leaned in and kissed me on the forehead. "Oh, by
the way. I think you know the guy I'm playing tomorrow" I must have looked
puzzled. "Raquetball. Yale Club, 6:30 am. My opponent tells me you
reserved the court. Your boss. Carey Tomlinson." I walked through the door
on autopilot. "G'nite," said Max, closing the door softly behind me.

(to be continued)

I welcome comments and questions, at lexdude34@gmail.com. If you liked the
writing, see my other story, "I Like Head," here on Nifty.